For this purpose he rose to his feet; but in doing so, a better idea suggested itself: to cut off his fawn-skin inexpressibles just above the knees, and thus free boots, straps, and pantaloon bottoms all together!
He had left his hunting-knife by his brandy-flask, and both on the ground of the bivouac. Fortunately, however, a penknife, which he carried in his waistcoat pocket, would answer even better; and, drawing it forth, he proceeded to execute his design.
A cross section of the fawn-skins, just above the knees, was at once made; and then—by the alternate application of toe to heel—boots, trouser-bottoms, and all, were cast simultaneously, and Smythje stood in his stockings!
He did not remain long inactive. Danger urged him to exert himself; and once more he essayed to scale the walls of his tree-prison.
Alas! after many efforts—many oft-repeated, but unsuccessful clamberings—he was forced back to the appalling conviction that the thing was impossible.
He could get up within about four feet of the orifice; but there the surface, which had been long open to the atmosphere, was worn so smooth by the weather—besides being still wet and slippery from late rains—that he could find no holding place upon it; and at every endeavour to grasp the rotten wood, he lost his balance, and fell backward to the bottom.
These falls frequently stunned him, almost knocking the breath out of his body. They were from a considerable height—ten or twelve feet—and, but for the soft rubbish below, that modified the shock as he came down, one such descent would have been sufficient to cripple him for life.
Once more his spirit sank within him. Once more Smythje yielded to despair.